


perfect

by Nonbinarytoni



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Poetry, idk i wanna contribute more to the fandom but oops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-26
Updated: 2018-03-26
Packaged: 2019-04-08 06:15:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14099061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nonbinarytoni/pseuds/Nonbinarytoni
Summary: i wrote this poem a while ago because i love enjolras. its in his point of view?? no rhyme scheme. its sort of a companion to my fic, flightless, but its set further along the timeline.





	perfect

Perfect is an odd word–  
Previously an adjective referring to a noun without flaws,  
But with the frequency it’s used to address me,  
I’m positive that its value has declined over time.

Perfection is an illusion created by those who are lacking–  
Those who are desperate for some source of light  
Especially within their dreary lives, devout of a glimmer of happiness.  
Perfection is like a hymn to those whose souls are searching for refuge.

I am far from perfect–a pile of ash in a barren fireplace,  
My stuttered thoughts and incomprehensible ideals falling as though tinder,  
Planks shaping themselves out of my melodramatic monologues towards uncaring audiences,  
Kerosene splashing itself onto the pile as i scramble to undo my family’s wrongs.

Suddenly, I am aflame.   
Hot-headed and burning those around me as I ignite my passion,  
Words spilling as if undetected,   
As if my emotions are already too strained to stop them.

Radical ideas are a blue flame, the worst to touch on  
But with phrases interwoven in their midst,  
Similes and metaphors–speeches with hours of preparation behind them,  
They leave red, hot spirals to fester in their wake.

Each new idea causes a crackle throughout the flames,  
Every sentence uttered forcing the charred wood to crumble.  
By the time my speech is over,  
All thats left are the ashes.

Palpable dust, slipping through your fingers when you try to hold it.  
It blows this way and that with a change of wind,  
A feeble, unsustainable substance with no value to the world  
Except for a reminder of how warm and bright it used to be.


End file.
